


Where We're Going

by Skops (prancing_queen)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst galore, Haphephobic Will, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Set after Mizumono, onwards and upwards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prancing_queen/pseuds/Skops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still staring at Hannibal with wild, stormy blue-grey eyes, and he has to turn away because if he carries on looking at Hannibal and feeling that growing pain, he’s going to cry, and his eyes are burning- stinging, and he can’t work out for the life of him why it’s grown so hard to see until he feels the hot splash of a tear on the back of his hand, the one that he’d clutched so tightly to his breast in an attempt to quell the frantic rhythm of his heart, and he realizes what's happening, and he’s crying and breaking all over again.</p>
<p>((Will Graham suffers from post traumatic stress disorder, and has an acute fear of touch (haphephobia), after being subject to the bloodbath in Hannibal's home.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where We're Going

_ " I never ever cried when I was feeling down. _

_ I've always been scared of the sound. _

_ Jesus don't love me, no one ever carried my load. _

_ I'm too young to feel this old. _

_ _

_ Here's to you, here's to me. _

_ On to us, nobody knows. _

_ Nobody sees, nobody but me." _

_** Cold Desert - Kings Of Leon . ** _

_** ** _

* * *

_**** _

"Come with me, Will. It's the only way you'll leave this place alive."

Though he'd come to hate himself for doing it, he lays a  bloodstained  hand in the coarse palm offered to him.

As the blood on their hands mingled, so their fate was sealed.

* * *

 

_** One Year Later. ** _

Will awakens a few hours before dawn, alone and frightened,  dark curls  plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck  in  a terrified sweat .

U nable to breathe because the terror from his dream is  still lingering . C hoking him, and  filling his entire world with an internalized agony that throbbed with  each  beat of his heart .

There's so much blood, and for a moment, when he looks down at his shaking hands, he can see it all over his  fair skin , staining the sheets, and he doubles over and gasps like a fish out of water at the sudden flare of agony that cuts through his abdomen. 

His skin prickles painfully as he tenses, trying to ward off the pain, but, only ends up making it so much worse.

Will frantically tearing his shirt over his head and exposing his heaving chest to the cool ,  early morning air. Hissing a breath between his teeth as he lays a hand over the raised scar tissue on his stomach which burns in protest at his gentle touch.

_ Relax. You have to relax. Relax, dammit, it hurts, lie down and let  it  go. _

The words in his head repeat like a mantra as he forces himself to lie back down. Fingers twisting in the sheets as he clenches his teeth and forces back a  guttural cry  of agony.

Little Abigail flashing behind his eyelids almost as soon as he squeezes them shut.  Prompting  him  to open them immediately and  stare up at the high vaulted ceiling with clenched teeth as his muscles slowly relaxed and left him aching and tangled in the fine sheets of his bed.

In an ideal world, he'd have someone here to chase off the isolation and soothe the bad dreams enough so he could  return to  sleep.

But the harsh  reality of  the situation  was that he was alone here.

Save for Hannibal, of course. But in that case, he may as well be alone for all the good that served him.

He's frightened of going back to sleep because he doesn't know what he'll see when he closes his eyes and oh god he just doesn’t want to know.

This has been going on sporadically  ever since he took Hannibal's hand .

Nightmares  jolting him awake with a strangled gasp, or  shuddering up with  the last ebbs of a hoarse, terrified scream tearing itself from his throat which is raw with bile.

The fits lasting  for over two weeks when he's at his worst.

Barely sleeping, and falling apart at the slightest provocation when he's awake .

Growing  so exhausted, and so frightened of  the night hours  that when he knows he has to retire to sleep ,  he  weep s  out of frustration  and despair .

Unable to vocalize his fears because he doesn't want Hannibal to know  what goes on behind  that  closed door .

But of course he knows.

Hannibal isn’t  blind , or deaf.

He can see the dark bruising beneath Will’s eyes, hear  the  screams  in the night  which  make  even  his blood run cold.

It  kills him to watch Will suffer, but words of comfort from him wouldn't be comforting at all and he knows this .

B ut  it's  all Will wants. To hear hope . Even if it's false .

_ The  dreams will stop. _

_ Things  will get better. _

_ We can return to America. _

Sweet nothings to soothe a troubled mind, but alas, never to be uttered.

Will  waits until his room  is illuminated with  a faint golden glow from the early summer sunrise before he creeps out of bed and pads downstairs . Unable to put it off any longer. 

He'll shower later. After he's shocked his system with an early kick of caffeine.

One of the few good things here was the coffee, and he liked to start out the day with a cup freshly brewed.

His head  buzz ed  with  the melodic  strains of exhaustion, and his eyes  were still  raw and aching , but it was something he was more than used to now.

He's unsurprised  when he finds Hannibal already in the kitchen, a pot of coffee already brewing, like he’d known exactly what it was he needed.

But in that moment he couldn’t find it within himself to care  just what it was Hannibal was doing .

He doesn't offer the ex doctor a greeting, or even acknowledge his presence  as he takes a seat at the marble breakfast bar , and likewise, Hannibal does the same. The silence between them  stretch ing  on  most uncomfortably . Only broken by the faint sounds of the birds outside, already basking in the warm Italian sunshine .

Hannibal too uncomfortable to say a word . Not knowing quite how to handle the volatile young man , and Will too drained to even think about speaking to him, even if he’d had something to say.

The scent of coffee is nice though. Soothing to  Will's  mind as he closes his eyes and rests his head in his hands.

The empath trying his best to focus on the sounds outside, rather than the ones of the kitchen as Hannibal prepared the cups.

The coffee set down  gently  in front of him  only a moment later , and feeling emboldened, Hannibal reaches  our to skim his fingertips over  the back of  Will’s hand. Meaning for it to be a comforting gesture.

But the young man  catches sight of the movement and  recoils like he’s been physically burned, almost knocking the mug of coffee over in his haste to  pull  away from the other  man’s  touch. His breathing shallow as Hannibal’s expression smooths into a mask of calm .

Part of him had known that this would be the reaction he'd get. But he'd been hoping it could have been different today.

He'll probably never get used to  it .

"Please don't- I can't, I'm sorry I can't." Will’s voice cracks as he speaks , wringing his hands together in a blind panic as  the colour drains from his cheeks  leaving him pale and trembling .

He  had  been  trying to allow Hannibal close again . Or so he believed .

Being  in the same room as him without freaking out had been an achievement  he'd grown proud of.

But the thought of Hannibal laying a hand on him, no matter how gentle, was enough to send him light headed  and breathless  with distress.

A little voice in the back of his head tells him he's obligated to lend Hannibal the trust to  comfort him  when he need s  it , and the desperation to do so  claws  at him, tearing at his already fragile mental state because he can’t.

He can’t.

Though he knows  full well that Hannibal only half understands  what's going through his head, he doesn't try to explain. Not  knowing quite how  to  without growing angry, or upset that he can't stand  Hannibal's  touch because of the memories it brings back.

He's still staring at Hannibal with wild, stormy  blue-grey  eyes,  and  he has to turn away because if he carries on looking at Hannibal and feeling  that growing  pain, he’s going to cry, and his eyes are burning-  _ stinging _ , and he can’t work out for the life of him why it’s grown so hard to see  until  he feels the hot splash of a tear on the back of his hand, the one that he’d clutched so tightly to his breast in an attempt to quell the frantic rhythm of his heart, and  he realizes what's happening, and  he’s crying and breaking all over again.

Weariness crashing into his limbs like a tidal wave as he finally buckled under the pressure of everything he'd tried so hard to keep inside.

All the hurt and panic resurfacing, raw and new, and it hurts.

_ Oh God it hurts. _

__

It's more painful  than that knife, he’d take that smiling blade a thousand times over if it would stop this agony.

And Hannibal is still stood frozen in place because he can’t  _ do _  anything.

Knowing full well that if he tried to help; tried to comfort Will, it would make him worse, and he  _ knows _  he is the  ultimate  reason behind this precious  creature’s  suffering, and if he could take it all back, he would, but he can’t do anything now.

What’s done is done, only now the scars are surfacing, angry and crying out for justice which he cannot deliver.

Then, before Hannibal can even register what he’s doing, he’s apologizing over and over again , not just for the touch, but for everything else beside  it,  and his voice cracks with raw emotion because the cool facade he usually wears is crumbling.

He’d pulled Will close  and  smothered him in his desperation to feel a connection with another human being, then ,  when Will struggled and floundered like one of the  trouts  he was so adept at catching, he’d panicked.  Dealt with the situation the only way he knew how.

He hadn’t meant for things to end up like this, and he can still feel the blood on his hands.

Warm and  sticky and  sweet. 

Will’s and  Abigail's  mingling so well that he couldn't distinguish where one stain ended and another began, and he’s so desperately sorry that even when Will tells him to shut up, to stop, he can’t. 

The apology falling from his lips is a living thing, almost tangible. Will shaking his head and pressing his palms over his ears with a choked sob as he tries to block out the sound of Hannibal’s voice, because if there’s one thing he doesn't want to hear right now ,  it’s this.

It’s too much, too soon.

The elephant in the room isn't ready to be addressed  yet .

Not like this.

Not here.

But it’s so hard to ignore  him  when Hannibal is on his knees, weeping audibly into his palms, and he’s so dishevelled, and he’s never like this, and Will can’t stand to see it because the hurt and regret is radiating off him in waves, and they’re  _ feeding _  off each others misery.

It hurts so terribly, and together their cries pierce the air like falcons who have flown back to the nest to find their eggs demolished, and young destroyed.

Even the dogs put their heads on their paws and whine quietly from their corner in the kitchen, but there's physically  _ nothing _  either of them can do other than wait it out and  _ pray _  that the tears will stop.

But of course ,  things rarely go as planned, and  a long while  passes before  they  both  fall  quiet. Sniffling almost inaudibly .  The warm golden sun much higher in the sky  now,  making the kitchen glow prettily despite the sombre mood that had befallen  it .

Both men left  stuck in their own memory loops, watching and reliving each horrific moment of that bloodbath like a broken video that simply won't eject.

Both  of them  wishing  they knew then what they did now .

But  they didn't, and time is a fixed thing.

They can't change it,  and  can only live with it day by day hop ing , futilely that things will get better , even as they bury their heads in the sand  and  resist the inevitable conversation they must have so vehemently.

Though nothing will ever change until it happens.

The loop will keep on playing over and over again for all eternity until they face it together.

Link hands , albeit reluctantly,  and take it step by step, accepting the past for what it was and moving forward as one.

If only life could be so simple.

Will is so resistant to  that idea  that it will probably take months, or even years of work to coax him out of the prison his mind has thrown up as a reaction to the attack.

He's turned down Hannibal's offer of therapy time and time again, and  Hannibal  doesn't blame him for  the  distrust.

If he was in Will's shoes, he wouldn't trust him either.

"Please, Will. You need to speak to me . This can't continue ." Hannibal sighs from his spot leaning against the  light wooden  cupboards. "Do you understand that?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment before Will eventually nods. Dark curls shifting with the jerked movement, which drew a weary sigh from Hannibal's lips.

"I know this isn't easy for you. And I don't expect you to be fine , and  I may have lost my license  to practice as a psychiatrist  in the states, but that does not erase my knowledge of the human mind. I can help, if you'd let me. The nightmares would stop. You'd be less jumpy. The pain would lessen. It may not go away entirely, but it will reduce significantly."

It's almost too tempting to pass up.  But, Will has his reservations about the idea.

"..I don't know if I can put myself through  therapy  again." Will replies at last. Lifting his head from his hands to glance down at where Hannibal was sat on the kitchen tiles.  "No offence."

"None taken. I understand. It's just.. Something to keep in mind." Hannibal replies lamely, dusting off the knees on the thin cotton trousers in order to distract himself from having to meet Will's piercing gaze. "I don't expect you to undertake the offer. But it's an option. I know you don't trust me, and that's understandable. I don't begrudge you for that, Will. But I do want to help you. Even if it's just for one hour. We can sit down, talk, and discuss treatments, if you want that. You're not stupid, Will. It's basic psychology. You know what I'll say and recommend, and if you know of anything better, you get a say in it."

The offer was truly tempting. Drawing a quiet exhale from the empath as he rubbed a hand over his face. What was an hour compared to the rest of his life?

"Fine." Will mutters, pushing himself off the stool he'd taken at the kitchen counter. Not bothering to pick up the coffee Hannibal had set in front of him some time before. It was probably cold now anyway.

"One o'clock." He throws over his shoulder at the elder man, curling his arms around his stomach and retiring from the room without further statement.

He needs space now, and Hannibal is all to happy to give it.

"One o'clock." Hannibal repeats, pleasantly surprised at Will's acceptance. Though he's careful to keep the relieved smile off his lips until he's well out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I revised this because after I posted it last night because it didn't flow right. If you notice any inconsistencies please message me because I'm not a hundred percent satisfied, and I know if I keep editing it, I'll end up scrapping the entire thing.
> 
> Other than that, I hope it was an okay beginning.


End file.
